


On A Scale of 1-10

by Thejerkandtheangel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thejerkandtheangel/pseuds/Thejerkandtheangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Grantaire's last moments, all he can think about is Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Scale of 1-10

“on a scale ғroм one тo тen, нow'ѕ тнe paιn R?”

Dark, crimson blood hung stickily from the cynic's pallid lips before dripping, falling, in a lazy puddle upon the black, /burnt/ ground.

His throat was raw, hoarse from screaming, crying out in utter anguish; the most he can possibly do now, is release a deplorable whimper which only came out horribly ragged, poisoning the air with its pitiable noise. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

“—ten.”

The mere, choked syllable is enough to send another ripple of pain, straight to his gut, his chest, his head— more blood spilling leisurely from his mouth.

However, it wasn't the physical pain that bothered him; in fact, he /welcomed/ the physical pain. Anything to relieve his mind from the emotional agony he was currently enduring at the moment. .

“Apôłłô нaѕ loѕт нιѕ нalo, нιѕ wιngѕ no мore.”

Grantaire sobs.

Metallic blood mixes with salty tears. 

Trembling hands release the grip he held on one of the eight holes littering his chest.

He continues to ignore—refuses to acknowledge— his friend's blood which was weaving, incorporating itself with his own, as he then shifts to a kneeling position, fabric of dirtied trousers scraping against scabrous, black pavement. 

“dιdn'т lιѕтen, ѕнoυld нave lιѕтened~”

The demon's voice of his mind purring, cooing voice, or rather, R's /own/ voice, continues it's mind splitting barrage of harassment, and while he yearned to push that part of himself away, bury it, exorcise it, cure it; he simply couldn't. 

He shakes his head with denial, crawling clumsily on hands and knees, making his way to Enjolras' bloodied body, more crimson protruding from wounds—which R couldn't stop, couldn't save his archangel from — pooling to the blackened, burnt, /singed/ ground where the barricade once stood.

Enjolras, however, seemed in a rather tranquil state. The image of his angel's golden locks, spread out in a halo around his head on the black, singed, once clean ground— if Grantaire stared long enough, focused till his vision became blurred with yet more tears, he could easily imagine his Apollo alive again; dirty golden, blood-matted hair, once again clean soft and vibrant. Instead, his archangel was a papery white, skin growing colder, colder, more frigid as each painful second ticked by. Once bright, fathomless blue hues (in which were one of R's favorite things about his fearless leader), were now glazed over with a gray, /dead/ color, outlined with an empty expression, all life, laughter, pain, hate, love. . . All of it was gone, nothing more than what once was and could have been.

“I remember you and me—” he starts, only to be interrupted by another one of his own choked sobs that seemed to sneak it's own way past his chapped lips, past the ready words lodged, stuck in his throat like glue. “E-enj— I'm sorry...” Grantaire whines, the sound odd coming from a cynic and a drunk; coming from /R/. A shaking hand presses to the wound that put an end to Enjolras before a weakening amount of heart could ever manage to do. 

Everything they fought for, and against; all for naught. 

Vaguely warm blood tangles with his fingers, as he mentally vowed that he'd find Enjolras' halo; he'd be his Apollo's wings. 

Slowly, hesitantly Grantaire curls up next to his fearless leader, head gently resting on a chest with no heartbeat. Something Enjolras would have never let him do if he was still- Grantaire coughed in pain, hurting.

Silent tears falling from emerald hues, shoulders rising and falling with inaudible cries. 

“on a ѕcale ғroм one тo тen, нow'ѕ тнe paιn R?”

“—ten.”


End file.
